The Norway Room (17 page)

Carrow looked down. An empty plate. Where did the patties go?

‘Walnut cake with your coffee? A drop of rum in it?'

‘Yes to the cake. No to the rum, I'm driving.'

The gang didn't waste any time. By mid afternoon the ransom demand for Magnus had been received, sent to Marjie's agent. Okker hadn't blamed Carrow. Had been pretty good about it. Once the police had finished their interviews Okker told Carrow to take some time off, but stressed that he hadn't lost his job. He could come back when he was ready. Carrow listened. Agreed. But he knew that whatever the outcome he couldn't face the boy's mother again.

At first it was all over the papers. Day after day after day. After that first day there was nothing from the kidnappers – or at least that was the official line. But no contact was news. Nothing happening, nothing at all. It was news. Had to be reported, analysed. Photographed. How do you photograph nothing at all? How do you photograph
no new developments
? You do it by getting pictures of everyone who has anything at all to do with the case or the family. If a guy had collected their garbage, there was a story in it. Talk to the nanny. Get her life story – get pictures. She's a pretty girl – get plenty of pictures; stick her in a swimsuit. Interview her boyfriend, then interview her ex-boyfriends. Talk to the bodyguard. Definitely talk to the bodyguard, and get pictures, plenty of pictures. He was becoming the most famous bodyguard since Trevor Rees-Jones.

He holed up in Utrecht for a time – like living in a history book. Cute old buildings. Cute old streets. Beautiful young women. Blondes everywhere. He bought an English paper every day and kept himself to himself. Rang Okker occasionally, rang Simmy Turner regularly. Nothing happening. That's all they said. Even the papers gave up. Nothing happening. There was a story that the nanny had gone back to America. The police had cleared it. A week or two later he heard that his mother had cancer. Serious. No hope. The police returned his passport. He could leave; he wasn't a suspect, but they would appreciate being kept informed of his addresses. Things were happening behind the scenes. The papers said so. Ransom demanded. Paid. Not paid. Different papers said different things.

Walnut cake. A thick slice served on a floral plate, the old-fashioned kind. A little cake fork at the side. Tastefully presented; tasteless in his mouth. A wad of thick material. Then the sweetness kicked in. The taste came. Then it was cake. ‘Another slice?'

‘Yes, please.' He took a pull at the coffee. Real coffee. Blue Mountain.

‘You know the ol' sayin' boy,
So goes life
.' She had said that when he was a kid, his mother had said it too. In Jamaica they had said it all the time, they had said it at his mother's funeral. But you couldn't say this to Marjie Veay. While he had been in Jamaica they had found the kid, dumped in an old bulb warehouse not far from Delft.

28

Ever since he had visited Miss Rosa Quirk, he had felt like the loneliest bloke in the world. Walking round the Norway each night, he was a zombie – oh, he did the job, he chatted to the punters, he looked at the girls, he'd even fantasise a bit, but never do anything about it.

He bought a couple of sandwiches. Toga was out. He had to stop himself imagining he had Ruthie to share his sandwiches with, a cup of tea. You're turning soft, he told himself,
sharing sandwiches, a cup of tea
. Once he had eaten he put on a tracksuit and threw his door suit into the boot of the car. He'd kill the afternoon at the gym, go on to work from there.

So goes life, boy
. Since his visit last week he had heard Miss Rosa repeat the old saying in his head at least a dozen time a day. He wondered if all this wasn't still part of the reaction to his mother's death, all quite normal. Perhaps he should have come back from Jamaica immediately, flown back the day after the funeral. He had thought that by staying there, in her place, everything would work its way out and he could return ready to carry on – a chapter closed. Well, it hadn't worked out like that.

There's nothing like a good workout to get rid of all the crap. As Carrow went through his programme he thought of nothing but the activity in which he was engaged. Was able to lose himself completely in the vigorous exercise – and he loved it.

This is the key, he told himself in the shower. Keep yourself occupied. Come here more. And find something useful to do with your time. He knew he should knock the whole nightclub game on the head. Nightclubs were for a night out, for getting pissed and pulling a woman. He needed to get a proper job. Put some structure in his life.

It was while he was still in Jamaica that he decided he wouldn't return to the force. He told himself he wanted something different when he got back here. But he knew it had something to do with failure. He had left for Holland with such high hopes. He wasn't going to go back with his tail between his legs.

In the changing room two blokes pulling on kit were talking about football.

‘You're all dressed up, mate,' one of them said when Carrow had put on his suit and was straightening his tie. ‘Going somewhere good?'

‘Work.'

‘At this time?'

‘Door work. Club in town.'

‘Which one?' his mate asked, tying his trainers. ‘You don't get comps to dish out, do you?'

‘Norway Room.'

‘What, where the shooting was? Don't think I fancy a night out there. Can't see that attracting the talent.'

How the hell did they know about that? Two blokes in a gym out on the Mendy shouldn't know about that. Best to play dumb. ‘You've got the wrong place, mate. Never any trouble there.'

‘Norway Room? In town?'

‘Yeah'

‘That's the place. A shooting. This afternoon. It was on the news as we was coming out.'

Outside the gym he checked his phone. Two messages, both from Toga. Message one:
they've got stretton. shot. ring me.
Carrow read it again:
they've got stretton. shot. ring me
. Fuck. He pulled message two up:
I'm at essex st. meet asap
.

ASHLEY

29

Dusk was turning streets into gloomy passageways. Some streetlights were on, some weren't. Some cars had headlights on, some didn't. Ashley walked. New Street. Corporation Street. Down Bull Street into High Street. Past HMV, down to St Martin's where the market traders were packing away. Bargains to be had. Men held plastic bowls of fruit and vegetables aloft.
Come on girls, finish me off now. Nice bowl of bananas, fifty pence. Now tell me, you can't do better than that.
Ashley usually liked it here. He liked to listen to the blokes with their patter, but not now, so he turned and climbed back up the steps to the shiny bronze bull that Sophie always touched for luck. Ashley needed some fucking luck.

Now he didn't know what to do, so he walked back again through the markets and into Chinatown. The smell of Chinese food. Ashley felt sick. He was heading towards Essex Terrace. Why was he going back there? What was the point? To see. To see what? He didn't know what. He could feel tears pricking his eyes, smearing the streetlights.

He was back in the underpass. It was stupid. As if the kids would still be here. As if here where it happened he could reverse time, return to a point where everything was all right, and proceed from there, only differently. There was cursing in his head. It moved to his lips. He was cursing his dad, the bastard. It was all his fault. The bastard. He thrust his fist into the broken tiles of the underpass wall. Did it again, quickly, before the pain started. And again. Thrust his fist into his mouth. Bit down. Hard. Hard. Now he could think.

He had to have a plan. He bit again. Tasted the blood. He needed to get back to Cecil Road before Kieran. Get the cash he had there and get out. He knew he had to get away. This was serious. He had screwed up. Big time. It wasn't his fault; but they wouldn't see it like that. Kieran. Crawford. Shit – the gun was out there. In the hands of some Asian kids. Shit. They wouldn't forgive him for this. He'd be meat.

He had no money on him, no phone. He would have to jump a bus. He had done it before. Get on at the terminus. As the queue moves into the bus and a crowd paying or showing their passes develops, you just edge round them and step inside, then straight up the stairs; he had got away with it lots of times, everyone did it. Once he got home he could sort out what to do. He was calmer now; it was going to be all right.

He was the only one at the bus stop. Must have just missed one. Then a couple arrived. ‘Mate,' Ashley called to the bloke. They both looked over. ‘I've lost me bus fare. Can you lend us a quid?'

‘Sorry mate.' He turned back to his girlfriend. She laughed and pulled away from him. ‘Tom! Don't be so tight. It's only a quid.' The bloke had no choice. He fished a coin from the pocket of his jeans and flicked it to Ashley. The girl spotted his fist as he raised it to catch the coin. ‘What you been doing? Your hand's bleeding.'

‘A fight.'

‘You shouldn't do that. Who with?'

‘My dad,' Ashley told her. ‘I punched his teeth out.' They both looked confused. Ashley remembered. The uniform. It wasn't him. It made no sense. Tom started to laugh. ‘It's a good job I give him the quid,' he said to the girl, ‘or he might have punched mine out.' And he pulled her closer to him. Ashley watched them kissing.

Back at Cecil Road. No cars at the front. Ashley went round the back. No lights on. Back to the front. He might not have much time. Kieran could turn up at any minute, or worse, Crawford – any of them. So, the plan. He would go straight through to the kitchen, open the back door; an escape route. He'd get his money, some clothes, his phone. No, just the money and phone. It didn't matter about anything else. And then? Afterwards? He still didn't know. Shit. Still, he'd just have to worry about that then. Get his stuff first.

He let himself in. Closed the door. Locked the mortise. Keep it dark. He felt his way down the hallway and through the living room into the kitchen. The back door was unlocked. And unbolted. Shouldn't be. There was some noise – from the living room. Was there? He listened carefully. Someone was in the darkness. Waiting for him. Definitely. He pulled open the door and fled into the garden. He was nearly at the gate before he heard the running feet behind him. Gaining on him. Ashley swerved, like greyhounds do, doubled back behind the shed. As his pursuer reached the other side of it, he would make a run for the house, back through it and out the front door. Once in the street he would have more of a chance. They wouldn't shoot him in the street, would they?

His pursuer wasn't Kieran, or Pricey, or any of them. But Ashley knew who it was. Geezbo. ‘What the fuck are you doing?' Ashley moved from behind the shed bringing Geezbo to a halt. ‘What you doing in my house? You broke in.'

Geezbo had him in a headlock before he saw it coming. It took Ashley's breath away. His head was down by Geezbo's balls. If he could have reached them Ashley would have bitten them off.

‘Calm down, man. Calm down willya.' Geezbo brought his knee up into Ashley's chest, but not hard, just a bang in the chest, it didn't even wind him. Geezbo kept him held down for a while, squeezing his neck so he would know who was boss. Then he pulled him upright and hauled him back into the house. Pushed him down on the settee. Stood in front of him. ‘Now man, I wan' you to level wit' me. Wha' goin' on? What wiv tis school bizziness? The uniform? Tell me, man.'

The relief that it was Geezbo he had to deal with eased Ashley; he could handle this. ‘I told you, man. I'm going to a new school. I've got to. My uncle says so.'

‘Oh yeah
. Gonna register him
.
At is new skool
.
Private
.
Goin get him educated if it the last ting I do
. Bollocks.'

‘Please yourself. But it's not bollocks.'

‘So you bin? You bin there? To that school?'

‘Yeah. Course I have. And what are you doing breaking into my house? You've got —'

‘Whazi called?'

‘What?'

‘The school, white dummy. Wha' your new posh school called?'

‘Highfield,' Ashley said. ‘It's called Highfield School. It's on Highfield Road. All right?'

‘What the edmasta named? Whaz is name?'

‘Price. Mr Price.'

There was a still moment before Geezbo jumped. As if he was taking off, flying nearly. His hands rose, his knees came up. He landed astride Ashley, his arse crashing on to Ashley's thighs, his hands pushing back against Ashley's shoulders, pinning him. Then he smashed his forehead into Ashley's face. ‘O'Conna.' Geezbo yelled. ‘O'Conna dummy. Iz wha' tha' Irish git say. Mista O'Conna.'

Geezbo rose. Blood was dripping on to Ashley's school trousers. His shirt too. Everything was ruined. Ashley pulled his tie loose, balled it and held it to his nose. His sobs sounded like suppressed sneezes.

Geezbo reached for the chair beside the table. Swung it one-handed to land in front of Ashley. Sat astride it, clasped hands resting on the back. Like an interrogator. Ashley waited. Geezbo said nothing. Then he pulled his kit from his pocket, opened it up and laid it out on his thick knee, broad as a tabletop. His hands moved but his eyes never left Ashley. He could build a spliff with his eyes shut, Ashley thought, unconscious probably.

Ashley dabbed at his nose with the tie. Inspected it. ‘Okay,' he whined, ‘It's O'Connor. I don't know. Or care. I'm not going again. Don't care what he says.'

‘Who?'

‘My uncle. Or O'Connor. Any of them. Don't care. Don't give a shit. I'm running away. I only came back to get some stuff. My phone.'

It was working. Geez was listening. Stupid fucker; Ashley had him. He pressed home. ‘Don't know where to go though. Thought about Sophie's. If she'll hide me again.' Geezbo was listening. Thinking about it. Ashley had done it. He checked the tie again. Blew his nose with it. Dropped it beside him on the settee.

Ashley watched Geezbo insert the roach, a perfect fit. He was thinking about what he had heard. Making up his mind. He flicked his lighter and took the flame to the spliff. Inhaled. Deep. Deep. His eyes rolled to white. Another hard pull. Long. Ashley knew the way that burn must be feeling and wished it were in his own chest. Now Geezbo was giving Ashley the hard eye. Hard eye. Dead eye. Looking across through the smoke. It was supposed to make him scared. Did it fuck! Ashley thought of the gun. In his hand. That's what he saw in the smoke. He could feel it. If he had it now he would blow Geez's head apart, like Humpty Dumpty. He knew he would.

He had to get out of these clothes. Rolling back into the settee Ashley lifted his legs and pushed them hard into the chair sending Geezbo tumbling backwards, the chair on top of him. For a moment there was the instinct to run – a quick getaway, like he always had in situations like this – but it didn't last. He stood and looked down into the surprised eyes of Geezbo still clutching his spliff, holding it aloft. Unhurriedly Ashley went upstairs.

But as he climbed the stairs the strength he had felt just a minute ago as he toppled Geezbo started to ebb away, fear and confusion taking its place. He caught sight of the boy in the mirror. Gun-boy – well, that was a laugh. He pushed his hair back. He examined his nose. The cut was on his forehead, just above the bridge. Dribbles of blood on his nose and cheeks. He spat on his fingers and rubbed them away. He could hear Geezbo on the stairs. Ashley thought of the window, but he wanted to be free of these clothes before he went anywhere. He touched his nose carefully: sore, kind of numb but not as bad as before when Benjy had had a go at him. Perhaps it had been damaged so much recently he was losing the feeling in it. He inhaled through his nose, held the breath, then let it go. The breath moved freely, no blockage. Geezbo was standing behind him.

‘D'you mind?' Ashley addressed Geezbo's reflection. ‘I'm changing my clothes. I'm not gay. I'm not doing it with you in here.'

Geezbo accepted this. ‘I'll be behind the door.'

Ashley put on jeans, a T-shirt, a woolly jumper and his hoodie. His trainers. He took his money from beneath the mattress, some more from under the cupboard. More from the bottom of the lamp.

‘What you doin' in there?'

Ashley pocketed his cash. ‘You can come in now.'

Geezbo watched Ashley take some T-shirts and a couple of pairs of tracky bottoms from a chair, some pants and socks from a drawer in a cupboard beside the bed. He rolled the clothes.

‘Wha ya doin?'

‘Going on my holidays. I told ya. I'm clearing out of here. Before he gets back and finds me.'

‘Who? Ya uncle?'

‘Yeah. I need a bag for these.'

‘Tere some downstairs.'

‘Where?'

‘In the front room. With all that gear in tere. Cigarettes. Booze. All sorts of stuff.'

‘You bin in there? No way. There's no way you should 'ave bin in there. You're gonna get me into all kinds of shit, man.'

Ashley tried to push past Geezbo, but the older boy held him. ‘Tell me man. Tell me. Waz goin' on? All that stuff down there. Like a fuckin' warehouse innit.'

‘I don't know. It's my uncle's. I've never been in there. I can't go in. That's why he keeps it locked, dummy.'

‘Waz locked. Not locked no more, dummy. One shove now, and door will fall right down.' Geez laughed. ‘Stay 'ere. I'll get a bag for you.' Ashley's phone rang startling both boys. Ashley looked round for it. Geezbo unzipped a pocket in his shorts and took it out.'

‘Don't. Don't answer it. No.' Ashley pushed forward with such panic that Geezbo lifting the phone away from him dropped it. Both boys scrambled, but Geezbo was there first.

‘No. Let it go to answer. Please Geez. Or I'm dead. Please.'

Ashley was crying. Geezbo pressed connect and the ringing stopped. He lifted the phone to his ear. Ashley stopped crying and watched. Geezbo said nothing. He was listening. Ashley could hear Kieran's voice, tiny and tinny, heard him say his name, repeat it, but couldn't make out what else he was saying. He watched Geezbo, grinning as he listened to Kieran. The call finished. The two boys looked at each other.

‘You nicked my fuckin' phone,' Ashley said.

‘That waz you uncle. Kieran, ain't it? Didn't sound so Irish now innit though. Sounds upset. Very upset. Sez he's on iz way. Wants to know what you done wizis strap.'